Crooked Teeth
by imogenation
Summary: The One in which Eames is angsts a lot, Arthur falls in love, Eames breaks a heart, gets his heart broken and everyone has secrets.
1. Chapter 1

Erm. Hi. I am new here and have decided that, although LJ is nice I feel like this would also be nice, too. So here. Have some fiction.

Eames had a lot of things that other boys didn't. He had an the athletic ability of a former Olympics champion, the intelligence of a neuroscientist and the acting ability of no other. He was one of the most popular kids in school (albeit, the handsomest) and he was the teacher's favourite student. His best friends were a tight knit group, and his friends included everyone and anyone who had talked to the boy more than once. His charisma and smile made it easy for people to love him, everyone it seemed, except for one person. And that person's name was Arthur.

Arthur was his best friend, but he was also a bit of a dork. He spent his weekends shut indoors playing videogames or trolling the internet, all while reading a chapter on astrophysics or Turkish history (both of which he would have borrowed from Eames). He spent his weeknights baby sitting his little sister, often accompanied by Eames, who came up with all sorts of 'fun' games for the three of them to do. Arthur's parents would be home by around seven, and Eames would have left by six, before Arthur and his family had dinner and then afterwards watched television together. He didn't want to intrude of Arthur's life as much as possible, but he had a soft spot for both his friend and his friend's little sister. So, Eames would walk home alone, hands in pockets, with the heavy weight of his bag ever present.

Eames had looks, charm and intelligence. There were two things that he didn't have.

One of them was Arthur. Arthur who was really, very straight and who dressed impeccably and had a smile that melted hearts and a personality that was even better (which, Eames had no idea how ithat/i was possible). Arthur was kind of gorgeous and kind of brilliant, and it wasn't that Eames had a league (being that he'd never dated- never wanted anyone other than Arthur. Wasn't that pathetic?) but if he idid/i have a league, Arthur would be way out of his. He assumed Arthur liked the petite girls, like Ariadne. So, on days that Eames felt particularly shite, or, Arthur looked particularly beautiful, he'd hunch his shoulders in attempt to make himself look as small as possible. It never worked, but hey, a guy could try.

The second thing that Eames wanted more than anything in the world, the second deepest and darkest secret that he'd kept hidden, was that, more than anything he wanted a family. He'd grown up with an abusive father and two older siblings. Eventually, they'd decided to leave the father and find a place of their own. Well, his older sister and brother had decided that for him. He'd more or less, just agreed and followed them to wherever they wanted to go- as long as it was away from the father. He'd only been twelve and hadn't even started high school, yet. His siblings dragged him to a different continent and decided to raise him in suburban America, by themselves, which, in retrospect was, and never had been, a good idea. But, they tried, and though both of them were as damaged as Eames (if not more so) they tried.

His sister, Wanda had, to memory, never said a word. Everything she wanted to say she wrote with pen and paper, staring at Eames if it was something particularly urgent. She was the middle child of the three of them and also fucked up in so many ways, it was hard to count. She kept her sandy hair cut short (Eames assumed this was because she was terrified of it being pulled, like it had been before the move) and her clothes layered. He'd never asked what his father had done to her, but he reckoned he could guess.

His brother, Logan was as tall as Eames, himself but held himself in a way that made people think he was much smaller than he really was. He'd talk to Eames in hushed tones, and didn't care for small talk. He was very to the point and Eames had nicknamed his brother 'The Needle', because, well. Point. He was the spitting image of their father, which terrified all three of them, and Logan did whatever he could to hide this from both the world, and himself. Logan didn't hate himself in the way that maybe Eames or even Wanda did. Eames thought that James held the belief that life was just a job that needed to be done. Something like a maths equation, something to be solved, but never really thought about to much depth. He was a logical thinker, and Eamed liked it that was.

Eames, on the other hand, was not quiet nor was he the spitting image of his father. He was often loud and obnoxious at home and prone to screaming matches iat/i Wanda. Wanda knew how to fight, though, and she knew how to fight dirty. Just by calling Eames by his name (his real, actual name) was enough to get Eames screaming obscenities at his already fragile sister. Logan had suggested that Eames acted out because he was so intent on repressing whatever his father had done to him as a child.

Eames told Logan that he could fuck off and suck a dick.

Logan had given him a look and then walked away, which was typical behaviour.

Typical behaviour in a household in which nobody loved each other because they were all so afraid of the implication of loving another human.

They were all severely messed up in their own different ways.

Eames felt like he could cope. He could cope because he had Arthur. He had someone who he could love without reservation. It didn't matter that Arthur didn't love him back, it didn't matter that Eames wanted it. It mattered that Eames would never act on some idiotic impulse to go ahead and ruin what he had with Arthur- the only thing that was keeping him from going mute or from relieving himself from social niceties.

He loved the fuck out of Arthur, and that was enough for him.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Was the first thing out of Eames's mouth, upon arriving home on a Wednesday afternoon.

His sister and brother look at him gravely and nod. Eames wills himself not to smile and joins the silent vigil.

They're standing at the kitchen table, both of them wearing the same expression, both of them staring at the same (and only) picture of their father.

Eames thinks it's stupid.

"How'd he die?" he asks, not caring if it's inappropriate.

"Coke," says Logan. "Was found in a ditch outside of London on Saturday. Beaten and battered, but overdosed first."

"So he didn't even suffer," Eames growls. "Fuck."

"Don't say that," his brother says, rolling his shoulders. "You're sounding like him, now."

They leave Eames to stare at the picture himself, angry and a little lost.

All he'd ever wanted was revenge on his father. He'd never have done it but-

That doesn't mean he's ianything/i like the man.

He stares at the picture and wonders if that's really the case. He doesn't really look anything like his father, except maybe for the hair and the physique, but the similarities stop there. He's never beaten anyone in his life and he's certainly never even considered doing- that- to anyone. Sex was a concept that rarely even crossed his mind, and when it was something that crossed his mind, it was usually in regard to Arthur. So, his feelings of lust were tied into feelings of love and also respect.

Feelings that, he assumed were completely different from feelings that his father had ever experienced.

He tells himself he's completely different from his father and Logan is just being a fucking asshole, again.

He tells himself this not for the first time.

And he knows that it certainly won't be the last.

He treads off to his room, ignoring his brother's call for dinner and ignoring the soft rap on his door, which indicates that his sister is trying to 'talk' to him. Well, Eames thinks, if she wants to talk, then maybe she could make noise with her mouth. He could open the door, but he's not in the mood for her stony silences and Logan's sharp tongue. Instead, he lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what his mother was doing now, if she was still alive, and wondering what Arthur was having for dinner, what he was watching on TV with him family.

He falls asleep hours later, long after midnight.

He swings around Arthur's house the following Saturday afternoon, far too perky than was acceptable so close after the death of his father, but really, he's just pleased to be out of the oppressive household. And, if he's honest with himself, he may still be in denial of the situation- not fully comprehending what had happened. His brain will catch up soon enough, hopefully when he's alone and hopefully someplace where screaming and yelling won't raise eyebrows.

But, for now, he's fine with denial, and he's even better with spending the day in the company of his best friend who was intent on studying, but Eames knew from past experience how easy it was to sway the boy into getting drunk or stoned or anything delinquent-y. Even if Arthur was one of the most straight-edge kids he knew, he had absolutely no problem when Eames would get piss drunk in his company. Arthur generally gave up studying after Eames had started talking 'British', which was a sure-fire way to tell if he was drunk/stoned or involved in a delinquent act which involved the alteration of brain chemistry.

Today, however, Eames hadn't brought a joint or even a bottle of Jacks. This was due to two main factors (as were most of his life choices.)

1) He had spent the last of his money on a new sketchpad, which he'd quickly filled with angry scribbles and blackened words. He wasn't an angst teenager by design. But, give him a break.

2) As previously stated, he now had a dead father. He was in a vulnerable emotional state. Vodka or weed often influenced people to 'open up'. That was really the last thing that Eames intended on doing. Especially in front of Arthur.

It wasn't like Eames was the only one keeping secrets from his best friend. He wasn't blind and Arthur was obviously going through isomething/i at the moment. Eames just wasn't sure iwhat/i. He wasn't going to pry because, really, he tried his best not to be a hypocrite. He just slipped, sometimes, when it was in his best interests.

It was in his best interests a lot of times. Whatever.

"Hey," Arthur says, buttoning up his waistcoat. The waistcoat, which is completely unnecessary and inappropriate because they're not going anywhere important at all.

"Greetings," Eames replies, giving him a questioning tilt of the head. Arthur ignores him. "How was your Friday night?"

Arthur shrugs. "Ariadne's party. You didn't turn up."

Ah. That explains the bitchiness. "It slipped my mind," Eames says, honestly. He'd spent his Friday night curled up with iThe Importance of Being Earnest/i. Not as exciting, but probably more gratifying.

"Yeah, well," Arthur mumbled, still struggling on a particularly stubborn button. "You said you'd show. So, I was left in the company of, well, everyone else."

"Ariadne has loads of lady friends," Eames points out. "Should have just snogged one of them."

For a moment, Arthur looks torn between laughing at Eames' casual use of 'snog' and punching Eames in the face for not even apologising.

"Well. I did. 'Snogged' and stuff."

"And istuff/i?" He asks, ignoring the pit in his stomach that has nothing to do with the breakfast he had not yet consumed.

"I was- Yeah. She. I don't know. She blew me."

Eames did not wince, but it was a close thing. "Good on you, proud of you man."

And Arthur's answering smile is about as pained as Eames' on expression. That's something.

Right?

Eames finds out that the reason Arthur is dressed nicely is that because, today is the day Arthur is getting himself a girlfriend. That isn't how Arthur explains it, exactly. Instead he says something along the lines of "I got laid last night for the first time ever, dude. I should check up on her and make sure she's okay and you know, be gentlemanly."

And Eames is the best guy in the world to understand all of Arthur's hidden meanings in carefully thought out sentences. He knows when Arthur's nervous or stressed or depressed or ecstatic. He also knows when Arthur wants to get laid. He iknows/i Arthur wants to get laid, and doesn't object when they climb into Arthur's car to go visit Ariadne and her friend (who's name Eames was still uncertain of. In Eames' mind she would be dubbed blow-whore.) They don't talk the entire way there, though Eames feels like he should give Arthur a brotherly punch on the shoulder, or commend him further for getting blown. He does neither because he's not in the mood for being Arthur's brother, today. And though his moods vary from 'The Polite English One' to 'The hyper, insane scarily polite English One', he doesn't feel like the world deserved Eames' good side. Not today.

They arrive at Ariadne's house, still in silence and when their friend opens the door she looks less than pleased to see them.

"Before you even consider offering alcohol or weed or whatever pills you have in your pocket, Eames," she starts, stepping towards him. "Know that I have the shittiest hangover, which apparently idoes not/i happen to anyone else,"- She shot Arthur a glare, before turning back to Eames. "So iknow/i, Mr Eames, that I am in a shitty mood because of the hangover and because one of my best friends decides to just not show up at my fucking ibirthday/i. So you better have some pretty fucking good reasons for not showing up last night, and then showing up now."

Eames stares at her and wonder if 'Oh well, my abusive father, who my family and I left in England- oh, did I not mention that he was abusive? Well, anyway, yeah he died and I've been a little preoccupied with both trying not to kill my brother and sister and trying not to kill myself. I do hope you'll excuse me for forgetting about your birthday, even though you've never once said 'happy birthday' to me on my own'.

Instead, he says, "Sorry."

She looks like she's about to hiss something particularly snarky. Something along the lines of 'ME AND YOU ARE DONE PROFESSIONALLY.' But before she can quote Christian Bale, Arthur coughs.

"So um, that girl I was with last night,"-

"Annabel," she mutters, stonily.

"Er- yeah. Her," Arthur says, nodding. "Is she here? Because, me and her last night kind of,"-

"I know what you two did," Ariadne snaps, and Eames is sure that there's some sort of underlying jealousy there. "She's inside. If you break her heart, I'll break your head."

Ah, so she was jealous of Arthur getting Annabel. Eames had picked up on Ariadne's lesbian tendencies (she dressed rather similarly to Arthur most day, icome on/i) but hadn't noticed the apple of her eye.

They watch Arthur enter the house and Ariadne blocks his entrance inside the house, by standing in front of him with her hands of her hips.

And he's not going to bother with her, not at the moment.

So, he walks the fuck away.

FDR is one of Eames' old friends from England, who'd he'd met on the plane over. FDR had no English accent to speak of, but still attempted an accent if the situation called for it (for example, in picking up girls or boys). He was the friend that, most of the time Eames pretended didn't exist. He was the kind of guy that your parents would warn you about, and if Eames had half decent parents he was sure that they'd warn him against FDR. FDR who was, charming and sexy and a maybe too intelligent for his own good. He was the only person, aside from his brother and sister who really knew what was iup/i with Eames.

This wasn't necessarily a good thing, in fact most times it presented itself as a very, very ibad/i thing. Because it was one thing for someone that maybe understood that Eames was a teenage boy, and, as a teenage boy had absolutely no desire to talk about things like ifeelings/i or iemotions/i. Well, he might have had a subtle desire to discuss such emotions. But, with someone like FDR, there was a desire to avoid all topics of feelings or emotion or well-being or any personal information what-so-ever.

It was because FDR brought all things back to well. . . Sex. And, though Eames had a startlingly powerful desire to do- sex- with someone that wasn't FDR and with someone that was more Arthur, he still hated it when drunken conversations regarding his father or his siblings turned into a conversation in which FDR tried very, very hard to grind against Eames and kiss him with everything he had. And, most of the time Eames let it happen, just because it was something to be expected, and, if he didn't let FDR do what he needed to do, then he wasn't prepared to deal with the backlash. He didn't think that FDR would hurt him or anything. But then again, why take the chance?

So when he comes to FDR's apartment later that Saturday, angry and a tad broken, FDR hugs him and holds him close in something that resembles nothing like a friendly exchange between friends, but rather an embrace between lovers. Eames doesn't object when FDR raises his chin to kiss him and doesn't object when FDR slowly unbuttons Eames' shirt. When FDR reaches his fly, he pulls away and the man (because, really, he's not a boy like Eames, he's more mature, maybe. More confident) and gazes at him, searchingly.

"Can I stay here, tonight?" Eames asks, untangling himself and buttons up his shirt.

"I was going to go out. Clubbing," FDR mutters, not breaking eye contact.

"You can still go out," Eames says. "Can I just crash on your couch? I don't want to go home."

"Sleep at one of your friend's," FDR snaps. "This isn't a fucking charity."

Eames sighs and wonders why everyone's being so bitchy today. "Why so bitchy, today?"

"Because," he hisses. "I have a hard-on and my job is in the shitter and- fuck, Eames. I'm sorry."

Which startles the smaller man. He really can't remember the last time FDR had apologised for ianything/i.

"S'ok," Eames says. "Sorry for-um- intruding. I- I - I just."-

"I get it," FDR says, seemingly calmer. "You can crash on my couch tonight, man.

Eames smiles in gratitude and FDR kisses him.

"Stay as long as you want.


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes up on FDR's couch, with FDR curled up next to him, very much awake and sipping coffee whilst texting fervently.

"Your bed wasn't nice enough?" Eames says, groggily. He is so inot/i a morning person.

FDR hums and pulls himself up. "You looked cold."

And Eames doesn't know what to say, because there are odd occasions that FDR says or does something that throws him completely off kilter and it freaks Eames the fuck out. Makes him wonder if there's more to the man than the outer layer of charm and arrogance. Eames isn't all that interested in getting to know FDR, he's interested in surviving the morning with FDR, then the afternoon with Ariadne and Arthur (who would probably be bickering over Annabel) and then the night with his 'family'. Life was really starting to look up.

Really.

FDR makes him coffee and also tries to make pancakes, which end up in the trash, burnt horrible and plainly unedible. So, he drives them to McDonalds where they indulge in shitty pancakes and even shittier coffee and then make out for a bit in the parking bay, before being shoo'd off by some middle aged mother of some hyper kids that press their noses to the passenger window as Eames and FDR kiss. As they drive away, the mother screams abuse at them, but they laugh it off, because it's nothing new for either one of them.

They get back to FDR's, and Eames is pushed against the wall and kissed thoroughly, FDR's hands stroking the sides of Eames' abdomen and it feels so good but Eames hates it all the same and he needs to leave because he really doesn't want this because making out is fine but this is too much for him and-

"I have to go," he pants, breathlessly. "I'll see you around, yeah?"

He's out the door before FDR can even say goodbye.

Every Sunday at eleven o' three Arthur, Ariadne and Eames meet up at CloverField park, sometimes accompanied by Dom, Mal, Saito or Yusef.

Ariadne is in the same mood as she was yesterday, minus the hangover. It doesn't make much of a difference to her general demeanour, and if it did, she doesn't let it show.

Arthur shows up at the park hand in hand with Annabel twenty minutes after Ariadne and Eames, who, for the most part of that twenty minutes, were sitting in a loaded silence, both angry, but for different reasons.

Arthur showing up with his girlfriend definitely did nothing at all to improve Ariadne's mood ior/i Eames' mood.

"Hey guys," Arthur says, with a quick wave and a big smile. "I thought I'd bring Anna, is that cool? I mean, I know you and Anna are real close, Ari. So, I thought it'd be cool."

"Like she's becoming part of the group," Eames says flatly.

"Er," Arthur says. "Yeah."

They join the pair of them on the grass, wet with morning dew. Annabel yelps a bit as the water seeps through her dress and leaves a wet patch on white dress where her bum is, which makes Eames happier than he's willing to admit.

"So," Arthur starts, awkwardly wrapping an arm around Annabel. "What are we doing, today?"

Ariadne shrugs and pointedly does not meet anyone's eyes. Eames copies her.

"Oooh-kay," Arthur says. "Am I missing something, here?"

"No," Eames and Ariadne snap simultaneously.

Annabel glances around nervously and starts fiddling with the wet grass. "Maybe we should go, Arthur? A- um. History project is due."

Eames doesn't look up as the happy couple get up from the grass, and doesn't say goodbye when Arthur leaves. But, that's okay, because Arthur didn't say goodbye, either.

"I think we should conduct a plan," Ariadne says, some minutes later, startling Eames enough to fall back into the grass, leaving him with a wet patch that would inevitably get itchy later.

"A what?"

"A plan," Ariadne snaps. And Eames reckons she's always snapping at him for one thing or another, so maybe it's just how she talks, or whatever.

"A plan?" Eames repeats. "Are we going to rob some National Bank for the long lost treasures of the,"-

"We need a plan because we're going to break Arthur and Annabel up, and then we're going to date them, respectively."

Eames blinks at her, wondering. "How,"-

"-Did I know that you're an ass bandit?" She snorts. "Please, Eames. You're gayer than freaking iArthur/i."

Eames decides not to point out the flaw in her logic that was iArthur was dating a girl. A girl with a vagina./i. "Not what I was going to ask, but, thanks."

She raises her eyebrows at him.

"I was going to ask what exactly this plan entails, not that I'm interested in any way, shape or form, but, if we were to do it then, what exactly would be do?"

She shrugs. "Plant false evidence, false rumours, um- think about Mean Girls ideas," she says.

"You are. Insane," Eames drawls. "No way, Ari. I get that you want Annabel as 'your own' and shite, but, really? This isn't you."

"Fine," she huffs. "But I hope you realise that none of this would have happened if you'd shown up at my party."

"Ah. So ithat's/i why you're so angry about it," he replies. "You're angry that I wasn't there to cock block Arthur. You were totally planning on getting shagged!"

"Don't ever say shagged, dude. I wanted to get ilaid/i. Shagged reminds me of carpet,"-

"Which you would have gladly eaten?" Eames asks, innocently.

"Dick-hole," she murmurs, but smiles. "Let's go get some lunch, dick-hole. I'm in the mood for a burger and fries."

Eames grins, and knows he's forgiven. "You mean burger and ichips/i."

She hits him over the head a little too hard, but Eames doesn't complain. He's really very happy to have Ari not angry at him.

He turns up at his own house at around quarter past eight. He knows he's in deep shite, because he was meant to be home yesterday at five. Instead, he's a day an a bit late.

The minute he strolls in, his brother starts screaming at him, but it's nothing like the abuse he expected. Instead, Logan's words are frantic and a little bit insane. Nothing like the man himself. By the time Eames actually focuses on the words instead of the way they're being hurled at him, it's already five minutes in to the yelling and it takes Eames a while to catch on to the situation itself. But, when he does, his stomach drops and he feels like throwing up.

"-contacts and, fuck, Eames, he has men coming for ius/i,"-

"W-what?"

His brother is heaving now, and when Eames looks around the dimly lit room he spots his sister who's curled up upon herself. He's reminded of the slater bugs he used to play with as a lad.

"We're going to fucking idie/i," he announces. "Because our father was involved in some act against the government with a lot of bad fucking people. Those bad fucking people are going to come here and fucking kill the fuck out of us because they think we might know something about how he died."

"No."

"They don't know we're here. We can't move anywhere because, if we do they'll be able to track us more easily."

"So we wait here to bloody idie/i?"

"Not quite," his brother says, still pained.

Then FDR rounds from the bathroom, obviously awaiting the cue because the arsehole was a sucker for dramatic entrances.

"This is Franklin Delano Roosevelt," his brothers tells him. "He's a federal agent. Be helping us."

"Ah fuck," Eames says, and retreats to his bedroom.

"Would have thought you'd be more excited about this whole situation," FDR says from the foot of his bed, some hours later.

Eames has already propped a pillow against FDR's legs and was currently reclining against the man. "I'm very excited about my father's death and potentially my own."

"I'd be excited," FDR replies. "Death of an abusive father, a sexy FDR agent staying in your bedroom, keeping you safe. What more could a teenage boy ask for?"

"Maybe a chance at normalcy?" Eames suggests. "Final exams are coming up, and I ineed/i to get into an art scholarship. But, it's going to be a little hard to study while my head's on the chopping block, wouldn't you say?"

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you, kid," FDR whispers into his hair, then kissing him on the temple.

Eames squirms. "How old are you, anyway? To be a federal agent you've got to be a lot older than,"-

"Age is only a number," FDR smiles against Eames's cheek.

"That's what creepy old guys say to high school girls to get shagged and you know that," Eames points out. "Because if you're secretly forty and married with kids or something,"-

"Do I look forty?" FDR asks, looking honestly worried. "Because I'm only twenty three."

"Oh wow," Eames says, blinking. "I thought you might've been, what? Like, eighteen."

FDR smiles at that. "Thanks. You know, you're the reason I'm here, my station thought that you guys were connected to the 'Magic Pop' murders, from a few years back."

"'Magic Pop Murders'?" Eames asks, frowning.

"All these people were murdered. Each of them left with a packet of 'Pop Rocks' jammed somewhere in the body. It was classy."

"I can only imagine," he muttered, wincing. "Did you find the killer?"

"We know who it is, if that's the same thing. But the guy was never icaught/i."

FDR stretches, and pushes Eames off his lap, then spawls himself on the bed, looking as chaotically messy as always. "The guy was involved in gang killings, too. Bad stuff. Lots of serial murders going on in that gang."

Eames has a horrible feeling about who the man was. "It was my father, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

They lay in silence for a bit, as FDR lights up a cigarette and Eames listens to the sound of the man's breathing. "Why'd you start kissing me if you knew I was involved in the case by association? Isn't that against the rules?"

"Yeah, it's against the rules," FDR whispers, and Eames can't remember being this intimate with ianyone/i. "But you've got really great lips and I was quite smashed."

Eames remembers. He remembers trying to struggle away, remembers being caught and then being kissed violently. It wasn't just his first kiss with FDR, it was his first kiss with ianyone/i. He remembers closing his eyes and giving in, trying to imagine that it was Arthur who was kissing him. He's never mentioned that every time FDR kisses him or holds him, or whispers sweet nothings into his ear, Eames imagines it's Arthur. There's a reason Eames never brings up his friends to FDR and even more of a reason now that FDR isn't just FDR, sleazy charmer, he's FDR, sleazy, charming federal agent who can probably shoot people and be all cool like in those spy movies. He's FDR who, for whatever reason, keeps kissing Eames who is so much younger than him and kind of short and kind of messed up in all the wrong ways and is in love with his iamazing/i best friend, who might not be some cool spy, but is so much more sexy because of it. He's Arthur, who's straight and dating some lovely girl, who Eames shouldn't hate, because she's really very perfect for Arthur, but Eames hates her all the same.

"You're thinking very loudly," FDR tells him. "Try to remember that you'll be okay and that you're okay, right now. Nothing bad is happening to you at this very moment, is it?"

Eames doesn't say anything. Doesn't say that the mad thing that's happening to him right now is being curled up against a man who he feels deeply uncomfortable with, but at the same time, trusts with his life.

Life after that carries on the same way it had before. The only differences was that FDR was there when he woke up, or when he went home, his brother was nearly as mute as his sister when he wasn't babbling on about escape routes or how to hold a gun, which was another skill Eames had acquired since FDR's move into their shitty little house. He'd taken Eames a few hours drive out and started 'training' him, which Eames found extraordinarily stupid because there was no way in hell he'd be able to kill anyone regardless of whether or not he was being hunted down. But, FDR insisted they go down most days after school and do various drills and learn how to shoot various objects. It went like this for three of four months, and none of his friends really noticed or even realised his absence from social gatherings. FDR still gave him days off to spend with his friends or do homework, which he maintained was important for Eames.

The thing about the routine drills with FDR was that, as well as improving his shot and stamina he'd also acquired a more 'well developed' body. Not that he'd been particularly wiry before, but he'd definitely had soft spots previously that was now just muscle. None of his friends noticed his new body, as Eames tried very hard to wear as many layers as possible in their company. But, when they weren't there he'd make a point to wear as little clothing as possible, and exercised this tactic when people like cheerleaders were around. He wasn't remotely interested in the cheerleaders, themselves, but the feeling behind their lingering gazes. It meant Eames could stay at the top of the school food chain, even if he no longer went to parties or snuck into clubs with some of the sophomore kids. And it wasn't really that important, to stay at the top of the food chain for the moment, other than to appeal to Arthur slightly more. He didn't think it was helping in ithat/i regard, at all.

On that note, Arthur was being as iArthurish/i as ever. Eames didn't really understand it, and only knew that Arthur was decidedly in love with his girlfriend, but he kept- texting Eames at midnight before he went to bed, or he'd pull Eames too close as a joke or-

Maybe Eames was just paranoid, after all, it was iArthur/i and Arthur made Eames a little more than crazy most days, even if he was with a girl. They still kept up the hanging out and the occasional sleepover. They had many in-jokes and made too many pop-culture references. It was just that, a lot of times when they'd hang out, Annabel would be there and clinging to Arthur. Eames would make an excuse to leave early and surrender home, where he'd have to deal with FDR and his come-ons which were getting progressively worse as time went on.

Today, though, Arthur had invited Eames over for the afternoon to play some videogames and look at Arthur's tumblr (which Eames still had no clue what to do on despite Arthur making one for Eames under the screen-name 'sexyshaggingbritwithbitchtit'. Eames assumed the whole website had something to do with cats, god knows Arthur's blog was full of those pictures) and eat shitty food.

They'd started watching some Teen Titans before Arthur's little sister came home and demanded to watch Kim Possible, so the pair headed off upstairs, where Arthur produced a bottle of scotch. Eames knew that, yes getting drunk at four in the afternoon was a ibad/i idea, especially when one would have to walk home and deal with a charming federal agent. But, Eames wasn't the guy that turned down free booze, so when Arthur suggested some shitty drinking game, Eames agreed.

The drinking game's really quite stupid and it involves drinking whenever a classical song comes on Arthur's iPod. Eames knows that Arthur's iPod is practically iall/i classical music, except for the odd band that Eames would sneak on there. By four thirty they're ridiculously pissed and Arthur is sprawled across Eames, petting his hair and laughing at how English he is and saying stupid nothing words while trying to remember the alphabet backwards.

Eames is busy trying to read a book upside down and not get achingly hard from Arthur being ithere/i. It's stupid and he wants Arthur to get off and stay on at the same time and it's frustrating and his brain really can't keep up with his train of thought for the moment.

"Do you think-" Arthur starts, but then giggles.

"What?" Eames asks, hating that his accent is stupid and heavy, and it's all the alcohol's fault.

"I mean," Arthur tries. "Have you ever kissed a girl, Eames?"

He shakes his head. He's kissed a boy. Or, more accurately, been kissed by a boy. But sometimes when FDR kisses him, Eames will kiss back.

Arthur nods, and crawls further on top of him. "So- so you need- the practice, right?"

"I'm not planning on snogging- I mean, I mean kissing- a girl anytime soon."

Arthur pouts. "Why? You have gorgeous lips."

Eames stares at Arthur. Arthur stares back.

"I mean- for girls. Girls say that you have- a good mouth."

"Do they?" Eames asks. "That's nice."

"You could have any girl," Arthur presses. "So you should. Practice. Get good at it, so when you have one you can do tongue things."

"Don't need practice," Eames says, trying to understand why Arthur is pressing the subject. "Why? Do you? Did Annabel say you were a wonky kisser?"

Arthur looks like he's about to protest for a second, but then his features into something that Eames recognises as 'I-Have-A-Plan'.

"Yeah. I need practice."

Eames wonders if he thinks he knows what he thinks Arthur thinks. But before he can really ithink/i about what Arthur means, his phone vibrates, signalling that it's time to start walking home and be miserable with FDR for the rest of the night.

"I should go," he says. "I'm right chuffed. See you tomorrow."

Arthur doesn't get up when Eames does, instead murmurs, "It's so cute when you talk English."

Eames smiles and tells him that he should drink as much water as humanly possible. Arthur nods and looks torn. Though, Eames has no clue why. That is, until Arthur pulls on Eames' shirt sleeve and pulls him against Arthur. He makes a little noise, but it's soon drowned out by Arthur's own mouth on his.

Arthur pulls away almost as soon as he pulls iin/i. "Bye, then."

"Um," Eames says, blinking, and trying his very best to crawl back up. "What?"

"I needed," Arthur says, straightening himself up. "I needed practice."

"Ah," Eames replies, eloquently.

"I don't like you, or anything. Other than a friend," Arthur tells him.

"Me neither," Eames lies. "Don't fancy you. You're my best mate."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"Bye, then."

"See you. . . Monday."

Then Eames leaves and stumbles down Arthur's stairs, and out the front door and all the way home. FDR gives him the stink eye as he falls into his room, but doesn't peruse him which Eames is very grateful for.


End file.
